Silver Nights (27 page)

Slowly, reluctantly almost, his arms banded her waist, his hands flattening on her back, molding her to him as her tongue danced with his and weary disillusion retreated under the hungry onslaught of passion. It was as if an eternity had passed
since they had last held each other, an eternity of believing that never again would they embrace each other in this way. The wanting exploded in savage necessity. He was pulling her clothes from her body while she still clung to him as if to move so much as an inch away from him would rend her flesh. His nails scraped her skin under the urgent stripping, but she barely felt it, moving sinuously against him, her mouth adhered to his, their whispering, whimpering breath mingling in the candid words of desire.

Naked, she stood against him, feeling the roughness of his jacket rasping across her nipples as his hands felt her, probed her, his knee pushing apart her legs, the wool of his britches harsh against the inner softness of her thighs. She felt as if she could never have enough of his hands, of the rough possession that confirmed his own desperate urgency as it brought her to frenzied bliss. She bit his mouth, wild in her wanting, and he lifted her, tossing her onto the divan, coming down with her even as he unfastened his britches, kicking them from him. Her thighs fell open to receive him, his hands beneath her buttocks bruised as they lifted her for his plunging entry. Deep, deep he drove into her, his mouth on hers, his clothed body pressing her into the mattress. There was no slow spiral of desire leading them to extinction. Annihilation engulfed them in a heart-stopping moment when the intensity of pleasure could not be believed.

Sophie heard the pounding of her blood, so loud it seemed to fill the room. Her skin was drenched with the sweat of ecstasy, her body, felled by pleasure, sprawled unmoving. Slowly, Adam rolled away from her, falling upon his back, one hand resting heavily on her belly. They lay thus for a long time, until life and strength crept back. Adam turned, propping himself on one elbow to look down at the prone body beside him.

Her lips were swollen with his kisses, her skin reddened by the abrasiveness of his clothes. A long scratch ran down her arm, another across her thigh. “You bear the marks of battle, my love,” he said with a soft smile, bending to kiss the mute witnesses to shared passion's satisfaction.

Sophie stretched lethargically, caressing the bent head. “They
were earned in a good cause. But it's fortunate Paul no longer visits my bed.”

Adam sat up abruptly. “Was that necessary?” The gray eyes had lost their love light. “Do you think this is some sort of game? In the name of all the saints! Do you think I need that kind of reminder?” Eva would not have had to worry about such marks of passion upon her body with her husband so conveniently absent. They were an inevitable risk, weren't they, in these tricky triangles? Marks of wantonness to be hidden if excuses could not be found…lies constructed…husbands deceived…The weary disillusion slopped over him again. He got off the bed, going to the table to pour wine. “You had better get back to the palace. We do not want your absence to be remarked.”

Sophie sat up, trying to gather herself together to confront this stranger in Adam's skin. “I do not understand why you see things as different between us now, just because we are no longer at Berkholzskoye.”

“Don't you, Sophie?” He pulled on his britches and crossed to the bed. “Do you really not see the difference? Does the deceit not touch you in the slightest? The contriving, the conniving, the pretty love nest used by so many others in need of seclusion for their own little adventures?”

Sophie put her hands over her ears. “I won't hear these things! It is love we share, the grandeur of love, not some sordid carnal need.”

“And what was that, would you say?” Bitterness laced his voice as he looked down at her, wanton and vulnerable in her nakedness. “Was that lust or love, Sophie?”

“Both,” she whispered. “I would not feel the one without the other.”

“And what do you feel now?”

“Nothing,” she said in defeat. “Nothing at all.”

“Then shall I show you the power of lust?” He sat down on the bed. “Demonstrate how it is possible to feel the one without the other?” He pushed her backward on the bed. “Let me show you what needs such a love nest satisfies, Sophie.” There was a caressing note in his voice, yet it set her trembling as if at
some menace. The gray eyes were cool as he brushed aside the tumbled brown hair, glinting chestnut against the whiteness of her breast. Her skin jumped at the brush of his fingers, burned at the press of his lips, the dewy stroking path of his tongue teasing the proud curves of her breast, flicking the rose-tipped crest. Sophie could not fight the responses of her body, could not prevent the tumultuous beat of her heart, the suffusion of anticipated pleasure.

The muscles of her abdomen grew rigid under the hard pressure of a flat palm. She looked up into the face above her. It was Adam's face, closed in concentration, detached, not a flicker of response as he performed this task he had set himself. Shocked despair drained her of all initiative. She closed her eyes tightly, but tears scalded her eyelids, squeezed beneath them to cluster on the thick sable eyelashes. They were tears of loss, of humiliation, as the inexorable trespass continued and her body rose to meet this pleasure that was being administered as some form of penalty for an offense she did not know she had committed.

Her eyelashes swept up, showing him the drenched dark pools of her eyes. “How could you?” The words were no more than a whisper. “Why would you do this to me? What have I done?”

Adam drew in a long, shuddering breath. Sweat stood out on his forehead. His face was gray. “I cannot do it!” he rasped, suddenly gathering her against him, cradling her in his arms as if she were a hurt baby, smoothing back her hair, kissing her eyelids. “I am tormented by past demons. To be forced to love you in secret is tearing me part. It is not your fault, yet I felt that it was, and I had in some way to brand you for it. Forgive me, sweet love.”

Sophie lay warm in his hold, unable to speak for long minutes while he stroked her hair from her forehead, touched her eyes, her lips, with a fingertip, a touch not of passion but of appeal. “You knew this was how you would feel,” she finally said. “I did not understand how dreadful it would be for you.” She raised her eyes to his face. “I did not understand because I do not know the reason.”

There was only one response to the demand in the dark eyes,
to the question in her voice. Adam shifted her on his knee so he held her fast in the crook of his arm. “I come from a race cursed with the most damnable pride, Sophie. We do not lightly accept the humiliation of being deceived.”

“Your wife?”

“I loved her,” he said softly. “And with the arrogance of youth and the blindness of love I believed that I could kindle the same response in one who spared no pains to demonstrate that it was an emotion she could not feel for me.”

“Why did she marry you, then? I do not imagine she was coerced.” She reached up to touch his face. “I cannot imagine how it would be possible not to love you if one was loved by you.”

Adam looked down at her in wonder at such forgiving generosity. “I love you,” he said. “I have never loved anyone before. It is possible to mistake the emotion.”

“To mistake love for lust?”

“They are distinct from each other,” he said gravely. “But thank God they can coexist.”

Sophie snuggled closer, enjoying her nakedness cradled against his strength. The soul's rawness was gone now, almost as if it had never been. Adam had need to exorcise his hurt, and in many ways it was an obligation of love to facilitate the exorcism.

“I do not know why Eva married me,” he said now. “Maybe I tired her out with my importuning. I am rich enough, my lineage is impeccable, and…”—that bitter smile twisted his lips again—“an army career ensures an absent husband for much of the time. My absences did not appear to distress my wife.” He bent to kiss Sophie's upturned face and smiled suddenly. “There, it is told now.”

“But you feel, when we are like this, that we are somehow touched…soiled…by that?” The thick eyebrows drew together in frowning intensity as she put her finger on the core.

“I was feeling that,” he agreed. “It is at an end now.”

There were still questions: questions about Eva's death, about the child it was whispered she had been carrying. But they were
questions she had not been given permission to ask, and they were not relevant to loving with Adam.

“I think,” she said thoughtfully, “that this time it would be agreeable if you were to take
your
clothes off as well as mine.”

Cannons boomed, resounding across Kiev, to announce the breakup of the ice on the Dnieper. The city and its population, both indigenous and imported, rejoiced, rejuvenated by the spring as they cast aside the furs, moved away from the stoves, and Potemkin's grand carnival prepared to continue its journey to the Crimea on the water.

Prince Dmitriev, in his wife's apartments, wondered how long he could contain his rage and frustration.

“I wish to know where you were going when you were seen riding out, unescorted, in such disgraceful fashion yesterday afternoon,” he demanded in the cold, dispassionate tones always so expressive of his anger.

The chamber was strewn with clothes, open trunks, and portmanteaux. Maria, in the middle of her packing, had been dismissed from the room on the prince's arrival. Sophie idly rolled up a pair of long silk gloves while her mind whirled. She had visited the hunting cottage several times in the last couple of weeks; until yesterday her solitary rides had drawn no remark. But she had been seen by one of her husband's fellow officers, who had presumably carried the tale.

“I have always enjoyed riding, Paul,” she said with studied indifference. “It is not a habit that is new to you.” She kept her back to him, picking up another pair of gloves from the pile on the bed, examining them critically as if for tears or stains.

“Where were you going?” The question rapped.

“Duck hunting,” she replied blandly. “Another of my great pleasures.”

A hand on her shoulder spun her around with terrifying force. She found herself impaled by the venom in the pale blue eyes. “You are my wife! Much as I may regret that fact, it remains fact.” He articulated his words slowly and carefully. “If you think, just because for the moment you are protected by your proximity to the empress, that you may offer me this insolence with impunity you are gravely mistaken, Sophia Alexeyevna. My wife does not ride unescorted. Neither does she hunt unless it be on a court-appointed expedition. The time will come in the not-too-distant future when you will be under my roof once more. Then, my dear wife, you will pay a hundredfold for every act of defiance, every impertinence.” The icy gaze held her, mesmerized like a staked goat before the wolf. “You know me well enough, Sophia Alexeyevna, to believe in what I say. In the seclusion of my estate at Kaluga, I shall endeavor once again to make a decent wife of you. It is my duty. And this time I will succeed in that duty.”

He took his hands from her with a fastidious grimace, as if she were in some way unclean. Sophie could feel the shaking begin deep in her belly, creep up the back of her neck. She must not show her fear. Silently, she turned back to the bed, praying that the violent tremors would not be visible. He had terrified her with the truth, with the reminder of his power and his hatred when she had thought herself immune, lost in the dreamland of love. The fragility of that dreamland, its temporal nature, now struck her with the force of the knout, and she cringed as if in expectation of another blow.

When the door shut behind him, she sank onto the bed, feeling queasy. She had been a self-indulgent fool to provoke him as carelessly as she had done. At the end of this journey…

No, she would not think of endings. The spring lay ahead. Anything could have happened by the time the imperial procession was done. Rubbing her stomach where the nausea still lay heavy, she went to the window. The river was alive
with craft now, the seven great galleys that would transport the imperial party rocking at anchor. They were crawling with men like so many ants, laden with provisions, scurrying with paintbrushes, hammers, nails, as they put the finishing touches to the vessels that tomorrow would begin their stately progression down the River Dnieper.

How many of the oarsmen were convicts, riveted to their oars? wondered Sophie. Deep down in the bowels of those magnificent red-and-gold ships, did they have any inkling of the amazing luxury, the staggering extravagance paid for and preserved by their sweat and tears? Did they ever wonder, as they writhed beneath the slavemaster's lash, what it would be like to belong to that other order of being? Probably not, she reflected. Imagination was a luxury, one that ceaseless toil and incessant punishment tended to erode. The greater proportion of the population of this vast land, illiterate and enslaved as they were, bowed to the old proverb: The soul belongs to God, the head to the czar, the back to the lord. It was the established order of things, not to be questioned by a serf.

Such gloomy thoughts! But the bright day and the excitement of tomorrow's journey had been touched by despondency. Sophie turned away from the window, depressed and queasy.

The next morning, however, she could not help but be swept on the tide of joyful exuberance during the embarkation. Her cabin, like all the others on the imperial galley, had an alcove as dressing room, a water supply, a bed, a writing table, and armchairs. There was a music room, a library, and a tent on deck where the passengers could take the air whilst being protected from the sun. Even for those accustomed to the extravagant luxury of Catherine's court, the attention to every detail of comfort and entertainment as directed by Prince Potemkin was staggering.

The first day, the entire party dined together in the special galley that served as dining room. Sophie found Prince Potemkin waiting to assist her as she stepped from one of the
rowboats ferrying the guests from their own vessels to the dining galley.

“So, Sophia Alexeyevna, what do you think of my little wonderland?” The grand master of the production was clearly in good form, reveling in the delighted exclamations of the guests, in the bemused admiration of the foreign diplomats, in his empress's serene pleasure as she smiled upon everything, congratulating her roaring one-eyed lion on an achievement that demonstrated to the world the glory and grandeur of her realm.

“I am spellbound, Prince,” she replied in truth.

“You will be more so as the journey progresses, I can promise you.” He bowed over her hand. “You shall sit at my table. I've a mind for an agreeable countenance and a quick wit as company.”

“You do me too much honor.” Sophie smiled quizzically. “I am glad my countenance is agreeable to you.”

Potemkin's eye sparkled responsively. “You are not a beauty, Sophia Alexeyevna, but in truth, I find I prefer such unusual looks to the milk-and-water conventions.”

That brought a deep flush to Sophie's cheeks. Looking for a suitable response, she felt another pair of eyes upon her. Adam had just come on board. He was standing to one side, clearly an audience to the exchange, his gaze holding wicked amusement at Sophie's embarrassment.

“I think Princess Dmitrievna is unaccustomed to compliments, Prince,” he observed lightly.

“How am I to answer that, Count?” Sophie had recovered herself, and her tone was a little tart. “I can neither deny it nor agree with it with any grace.”

“Yes, indeed, Adam, it was most ungallant,” announced Potemkin. “I suggest you take the lady in to dinner and attempt to make reparation.”

“Gladly, sir.” Bowing, Adam proffered his arm. “I am desolated to have offended you, madame.”

There was a playfulness about him, Sophie thought, as she laid her hand on his arm. It was as if he, too, had been affected by the magic of this journey where convention's rit
uals had been suspended and amusement and wonder were the only acceptable responses.

Her gaze skimmed the brilliant dining room, looking for her husband amongst the seventy chattering, bright-plumed guests. “How strange I do not see my husband, Count.”

“I understand he excused himself from attendance this evening. He is responsible for the arrangements for the reception of the Prince of Prussia when we reach Kaidak. It is not a light burden.”

“No,” agreed Sophie, taking her place at the table. “It will be quite a few days before we reach Kaidak, will it not?” Her tone was innocent, her smile sweet.

“I imagine Prince Dmitriev will be much occupied with details until then,” responded Adam gravely.

“My husband is always a stickler for detail, and indefatigable when it comes to duty,” said Sophie. “Yes, just a little of the salmon, thank you.” She smiled at the footman, standing at her elbow with the silver platter of fish. “No, I will just have water, thank you.” She waved away the butler with the wine decanter.

Adam looked at her in surprise. “No wine, Sophie?”

She frowned. “I don't feel like it tonight. Maybe water travel does not suit me any better than carriages.”

“It is as smooth as glass,” Adam protested, slicing into his salmon. “You will become accustomed soon enough.”

“I am sure of it.” Sophie shrugged. “I am ravenous, at all events.”

All around them conversations buzzed, heads were bent in intimate conclave, laughter rose, sometimes immoderate. Adam and Sophie enjoyed a form of public privacy, drawing no attention in the general hum as they conducted the conversation of intimates in the language of acquaintances.

An orchestra played on deck after dinner, and throughout the spring evening, into the radiant night, the party danced, strolled, laughed, and exclaimed as they sailed through the country of the Cossacks, peaceful under the starry sky.

The czarina, on the arm of Monsieur Redcoat, retired early, but there was no curfew upon her guests or her ladies-in-
waiting. It was very late when Sophie was rowed back to the imperial galley to seek the peace of her cabin, where Maria waited to help her into bed.

Once in her peignoir, Sophie dismissed the maid. “I will brush my own hair. Go to bed now. You must be tired.”

Maria looked surprised and gratified at this consideration. She bobbed a curtsy, then left to seek her own rest in the servants' quarters below decks.

Sophie drew her brush through the silken cascade of her hair. She had found a semblance of acceptance where Maria was concerned. One could not blame the serf for obeying the orders of such a master as Prince Dmitriev; but the longing for Tanya Feodorovna and her abrasive common sense could not be assuaged.

Slipping off the apricot-colored silk peignoir, she stretched tiredly. It had been an amazing day, promising to be the first of many such. She was unusually fatigued, though. The luxury of a feather mattress enclosed her as she climbed into bed. The porthole was open, filling the chamber with the milky light of a northern night; the rhythmic swish of oars lulled her, the regular slap of water soothed, her eyes closed….

The tapping on the partition wall beside her head melded into the noises of night and motion. Through the delicious languor of half-sleep, she did not separate the sound until it became a rhythm, insistently obtrusive. She was wide awake. That was no accidental rhythm. It was clearly designed to produce a response.

Hesitantly, she tapped back, as laughter at this game, ridiculous yet somehow in keeping with Potemkin's fairyland, bubbled in her throat.

“I thought you were never going to wake up.” There was a deep chuckle in the voice whispering to her from behind a bare inch or two of wood.

“Adam!” Sophie sat up, covering her mouth with her hand to stifle her squawk of astonishment. “Where are you?”

“Next door, of course. Where are your wits?”

“Gone begging,” she whispered with a choke of laughter. “How did you get there?”

“Simple. The disposition of cabins on this galley was my province.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“I thought you overdue for a surprise.”

“Are you coming in?”

“I thought I might.”

Sophie curled over her laughter at his solemnly considering tone, burying her face in her pillow, pulling the sheet over her head.

“Hey! What are you doing in that cocoon?” In no more than a minute or two, the sheet was pulled free, Adam's whisper, suffused with his own hilarity, sounding above her. “Turn over!”

Sophie rolled onto her back, showing him pink cheeks glistening with tears of laughter. “I cannot believe you have contrived this,” she gasped. “It is not like you.”

Adam looked hurt. “I had thought myself grown rather accomplished recently in such matters.”

Sophie stiffened slightly but could detect not a trace of the old constraint in his voice or expression. Indolently, she stretched, smiling seductively up at him. “An expert, if the truth be told.”

The gray gaze ran slowly down her body. The thin satin nightgown clung to the soft curve of breast and hip, dipped into the concavity of her belly, outlined the pointy hipbones that were one of his greatest delights in this garden of delights laid out in wanton offering.

“Take your nightgown off,” he softly commanded.

“You take it off,” she returned, running her tongue over her lips, stretching again, deliberately taunting.

Adam shook his head. “Life would be a lot easier if you had ever learned to do as you are told,” he murmured plaintively. The plaintive tone, however, was belied by the energy of his action. Swooping down upon her, he lifted her off the bed, setting her firmly on her feet. “Now, do as I tell you.”

Sophie's eyes narrowed. She reached for the girdle of his
robe, very slowly untying it, spreading apart the sides as she looked hungrily down his body, thus bared for her desirous gaze. Moving closer, she pressed her lips to his nipples, tantalized with her tongue until the little knobs hardened beneath the moist caress. One hand drifted over his belly, feeling the involuntary contraction of his abdominal muscles under the touch, drifted down to whisper between his thighs.

“Disobedience is not always an offense, is it?” she murmured wickedly, sliding to her knees, holding him between her hands, smiling with sensual mischief up at his transported face as her tongue flicked in an erotic dance that forced a groan from his lips; his hands urgently grasped her head, fingers twining in the luxuriant dark fall.

“Witch!” he declared on a shuddering breath. “Get up, for pity's sake.” Catching her beneath the arms, he drew her to her feet again. “Take that damned nightgown off.”